The Details
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: Mark gets his point of view expanded.


**Author's Note: **It's yet another epilogue to the episode "If You Could See What I See". Thanks for the challenge, Owl, though I had to drop back a few days in the narrative and get a running start.

**The Details**

by L.M. Lewis

It had surprised him, really, how many people had stopped by to visit once he'd been able to stay awake and pay attention long enough to know he had company. Of course the first couple of days were an absolute blank. He thought it was probably for the best, given the worried looks he'd gotten from Hardcase on the first morning that _wasn't_ a blank. After that there'd been a couple more days that were fairly hazy, laced with morphine and punctuated by episodes of shaking chills topped off with drenching sweats.

But even then there'd been visitors. Not just the judge—who'd been there right from the start nearly every time the fog had lifted enough for things to make a little sense—but other people, too. Definitely Teddy—waking up to Teddy Hollins' distinctive timbre had given him a lurch one afternoon early on. Nearly three years removed from a San Quentin cell block and it still took so little—at least in his muddled state—to send him flashing back on all of that.

There'd been Barb Johnson, too. She showed up the third morning, or maybe it'd been the forth, all the way from San Francisco and at the beginning of her last term in law school. There'd been a lot of things he'd wanted to ask her, but he'd never made it past her concerned questions about how he was doing. The next thing he knew he was waking up again, not even sure that she'd really been there except that the judge was back in the chair at his bedside and assured him it had been real. She hadn't wanted to wake him up just to say goodbye. She said she'd call in a couple of days.

Frank had been by, of course. Not too many questions at first, but he was obviously interested in making the case against Price and Falcon. Mark understood that. He wanted them nailed, too. Still, he hadn't been looking forward to actually explaining what had happened. He felt like such an idiot having fallen into their trap—even more so after Millie's plain warning.

Sometimes he wondered about that—whether he'd imagined some of the part before the shooting, too. It seemed like one of those crazy dreams. He'd half-convinced himself none of it had actually happened. Then, of course, the moment of reckoning had come with his statement to Frank, and it turned out that Hardcastle had all the same memories—Millie and the warnings they'd both ignored.

That had been three days ago—an awkward session in which they both had to admit that Millie had predicted he'd be shot. Since then things had edged back to some semblance of normal, nudged along by his single-minded effort to get out of bed and out of this hospital. That much focus helped to blur everything else. That and what was now a steady stream of visitors: Mattie Groves, Claudia Harper, E.J. Corlette.

But not Millie.

He puzzled over it. At first he thought maybe the judge had had some say in it, that maybe the whole thing had disturbed him so much that he'd given her the bum's rush—let her go. But, no, just the night before he'd mentioned another homemade pecan pie. Obviously Millie was still in residence at the Gull's Way kitchen.

Of course she wasn't under any obligation to visit. He'd really only met her a week before the shooting. It seemed odd, that. It felt so much longer, as if he'd known her from the moment he'd laid eyes on her. Maybe it was all the times Buddy had talked about her, back in Quentin.

Anyway, she owed him nothing. She'd already tried to save his life, and what good had it done? Now she'd have one more reason to doubt that _any_ good could come from her "gift". No, he owed her—big time, he figured. Even if he _had_ flat out ignored her well-intentioned warnings, she obviously must have read the riot act to Hardcastle and finally gotten him to believe.

_Better late than never._ And from the way the judge had been behaving, it must have been perilously close to the latter

Mark figured obligation was all on his side, and he was glad he'd have a chance to thank her as soon as the paperwork was finished and Hardcastle brought the truck around. He fidgeted impatiently, wondering for the umpteenth time if he hadn't pushed just a little too hard for his release. But close confinement wasn't his strong suit and, besides, getting out of the hospital was only step one in fixing things with the judge.

"You ready, kiddo?"

He glanced up at Hardcastle, bustling in accompanied by the nurse—sheaf of papers in her hand. The judge was wearing that relentlessly cheerful smile again, the one that seemed absolutely wrong, yet utterly unassailable.

Mark nodded, pinned on a faux-cheerful grin of his own, and managed to get to his feet before Hardcastle could offer a hand. He'd been perched on the edge of the hospital bed for just that reason. He thought it might have been more impressive if the bed hadn't been positioned at the proper height and the cane hadn't been necessary but, still . . .

"No wheelchair," he said warningly.

The nurse rolled her eyes. It was Angie, and she slapped the papers down on the bed table and said, in a soprano growl, "Okay, hotshot, sign here."

He hung the cane on the edge of the table and surreptitiously leaned against the bed as he scrawled his name.

"The follow-up appointments are all on the last page." She was obviously directing this mostly at the judge, as the responsible party. "And here's the prescriptions."

Hardcastle took those, too, folding them into his shirt pocket and giving Mark a dubious look that took the edge off his smile.

"I thought you liked things with wheels," he cajoled.

"_No_." He already had the cane in hand and had taken a limping step in the direction of the door. He heard Hardcastle's sigh of resignation—obviously still trying to humor the invalid. Three more steps and he was out in the hallway and panting slightly. The wheelchair was parked there, looking damn inviting.

He squinted and shifted a glance back toward the judge. "Well . . . I s'pose it'd be faster."

"And easier than scraping you off the pavement when you fall down," Angie muttered acerbically.

Mark drew in a breath and straightened. The twinge of pain sharpened.

"Okay," he relented reluctantly, "just to speed things up a little . . . not that I _couldn't_ walk."

"'Course you could." Hardcastle got himself on the far side of the chair and pivoted it around. Mark sat gratefully in a barely-controlled descent.

"_Men,_" Angie commented, without much effort to keep it under her breath.

00000

They made it to the curbside uneventfully. Getting into the cab of the GMC was dicier and didn't bode well for getting out, but Hardcastle said nothing that wasn't non-judgmentally encouraging. The whole process left Mark's teeth on edge.

"Got Sarah's old room set up for you—figured the first floor would be best for a few days."

"What about Millie?"

"She said she didn't mind taking a guest room; it's only for a couple days."

Mark considered this. If he couldn't tackle the stairs in a day or two, he could always crash on the gatehouse couch. He nodded absently as he pondered the hospital, looking at it from the outside in for the first time.

"How far are we from--?"

"Home? 'Bout a half-hour. I'll drop these prescriptions off in town and come back for 'em after lunch."

"We can just wait for them—save you a trip."

"Uh-uh. Millie's fixing up something. I promised her I'd have you home by lunch."

00000

The rest of the trip was made in studied silence. It was obvious that Hardcastle wasn't in a chatty mood. Mark half-wondered if the route would take them by the scene of the crime. He hadn't gotten up the nerve yet to ask for any details and his own recollections of that interminable night consisted mostly of the damp, bone-numbing cold and the unrelenting darkness.

No, they stuck to the valley road, taking that down to the Pacific Coast Highway and from there south to Malibu. The drugstore stop was made hastily. Mark was half-dozing by then and woke up with a jerk as the judge scrambled back behind the wheel.

"Don't think I need the damn pain pills," he muttered. "Can't stay awake as it is."

"Only one of 'em is for pain," Hardcastle pointed out with an unusually patient tone. "Besides, you might change your mind about it."

Mark frowned but said nothing he'd have to take back in the middle of the night. He said nothing at all until they were turning up the drive and what came out then was a wholly spontaneous and unpremeditated, "It's good to be home."

The moment it was out he regretted it. It _was_ home, but saying it out loud like that suddenly felt awkward and embarrassing. He was relieved when Hardcastle pulled up between the fountain and the house. Mark scrabbled for the handle, trying to get the door open on his side before the judge made it round to help. He wasn't fast enough, of course, but all the fussing and admonitions—and the steadying arm as well—buried the one awkwardness in a pile of others.

They took the front stairs slowly and that door was open before they'd reached it. There was Millie, in her apron, wringing her hands slightly and wearing an anxious smile. "Not too tired for lunch?"

"No, as long as it's not hospital food," he assured her. He sniffed the aromas—chicken soup and fresh biscuits—and smiled. This seemed to set her at ease, his matter-of-fact reference to where he'd just come from and his genuine happiness to be out.

Their little procession went straight back to the kitchen, where the places were already set. Hardcastle pulled out a chair and got him settled in it. This time Mark pushed his embarrassment aside. He was just going to have to get used to this for the time being—the judge's strange air of penitence. He'd get it out of his system eventually, Mark figured. Besides, it wasn't practical to refuse help he still needed.

They ate. Hardcastle seemed to be hurrying and he didn't linger once he'd spooned up the last from his bowl. He glanced down at his watch. "The prescriptions ought to be ready. Anything else you need from the store?"

Mark shook his head. He saw Millie start to do the same and then cock hers thoughtflly.

"I was going to make some oatmeal cookies," she said. "I've got everything; except you might want to pick up another half gallon of milk to go with them."

The judge nodded as he scooted his chair back and stood. Then a moment later he was gone, the front door opened and shut surreptitiously enough to not be heard back in the kitchen. Then Millie was on her feet as well, clearing her dishes from the table along with the judge's.

"I'm almost done," Mark said casually.

"You take your time. I was just going to get started on the mixing."

He thought about offering to help with the dishes, realized he was next to useless with one wrist splinted and a cane hanging on the back of his chair, and went back to playing with the remains of his soup. Millie was scurrying around enough for the two of them and mostly with her back to him, as if to ease the nervousness of the situation.

He sighed. Best to get it over with, he supposed.

"I'm sorry I didn't believe you," he said, quiet but direct. He swallowed once. "If I'd've listened . . .."

Millie glanced back over her shoulder. Her surprise was unmistakable. She turned slowly, wiping her hands on her apron with that persistent air of nervousness. There was a quick, bare flick of a smile and then she was back to a look of sober concern.

"There wasn't any reason why you should have . . . and, anyway, I was wrong, thank God."

Mark frowned. "Uh-uh. Millie, maybe you don't like hearing this stuff, but what you said—that's pretty much how I remember it."

"I said you'd be killed."

She's spoken it in a hush. She had a knot of apron now clutched almost convulsively in her hands.

"Minor detail." Mark tried to lighten things with smile. "Anyway, I wasn't. That's what counts . . . and well, I'm grateful." He wasn't sure exactly when her expression had slid into this look of anxious guilt but it was full-blown now.

"For whatever you did to finally convince Hardcastle that you had the second sight," he added. "I think he's probably glad, too . . .. Hard to tell sometimes, I know."

"You think . . ." She stepped back over to the table, releasing her apron and sinking into the seat she'd vacated. "No . . . you've got it all backwards." She was shaking her head.

Her earnest intensity wiped the smile from his face. "Yeah, but—"

"He came to me," she said, softly wretched. "I'd gone home, given up. _He_ came and found me. If he hadn't . . ." she shuddered, "I'd given you up for dead."

She was on her feet again. It seemed easier for her now that the confession was out. "I'm sorry," she said softly. "It seemed so real when I saw it. I didn't have his faith, really . . . the faith not to believe my own eyes." She turned back toward the counter, leaving him sitting there at the table, spoon in hand but soup forgotten. He might have sat like that, indefinitely befuddled, if the doorbell hadn't rung a moment later.

"I'll get it," he heard himself say reflexively, and there he was, getting to his feet, awkward but unassisted, before Millie could register a protest.

Whoever was on the other side was patient enough to wait without leaning on the bell yet another time for emphasis. Mark made slow but steady progress, still caught in the spell of Millie's confession.

The outline through the diamond-paned glass was Frank, in a familiarly hunched posture. Mark unlatched the door one-handed, opened it, and gestured the man in nonchalantly. Frank stepped by him and headed into the den. Mark limped down the two steps, feeling pleased with himself for managing that unaided, too.

"Hardcastle's out running errands. What's up?" he added, belatedly noting the lieutenant's harried look.

Frank stood there, hands stuffed in his pockets and a look of disgruntlement on his face. "How long he say he'd be out?"

Mark shrugged and pointed to a chair by way of an answer. "If you hang around long enough, Millie's making cookies."

This didn't get him much of a smile. Of course Frank hadn't tasted Millie's cookies yet. He hadn't taken a seat, either.

Mark frowned. "What's wrong and is it my fault?"

This finally got a wry grin from the cop. "You're off the hook this time." But then Harper's grin went a little flat and in the silent pause Mark had an even grimmer thought.

"Price and Falcon," he groaned, "some kinda technicality—"

"_No_," Frank interrupted emphatically. Then he hesitated, back-peddling slightly. "Well . . . nothing major."

"What?" Mark tried to keep his voice even, "I told ya, parts of it are kinda fuzzy but it was _them_, both of them. They suckered me back there. Dex had me in an arm lock and Price pulled the trigger. How much more of a sure thing can it be?"

"Like I said, it's not a problem with your statement—Milt didn't say when he'd be back, huh?"

"_I'm_ the guy who got shot." Mark was still frowning intently as he sank into a chair.

"Yeah," Frank muttered, "but you're not the guy who punched Dex Falcon's lights out in front of twenty witnesses."

"Huh?" Mark looked up sharply.

Frank plowed ahead. "Word is, Dex's lawyer is waving it in front of the DA, claiming his client was a victim of police brutality—"

"He did _what_?" Mark said, still stuck back at fact one.

Harper pulled up sharply and eyed the younger man. "You didn't hear that part, huh? Course not, he wouldn't tell you." He shook his head slowly and settled into the chair opposite Mark's. "Heat of the moment, really." He made a face. "Can't blame him. Falcon picked the wrong time to wise-off. Wrong time, wrong subject. Still, Milt's not usually the kind of guy who loses it like that. I pulled him off before things had a chance to get to serious."

Mark was frowning. "So Dex's lawyer is just blowing smoke?"

Frank gave that a moment's thought. He finally shrugged. "Probably. Milt's not a cop and, anyway, Dex didn't even ask to see a doctor. IA already took a pass on it and the DA says if Falcon wants to take the stand to discuss the matter at his trial, it's okay with him."

Mark sat silently for a moment then finally said, "So let it go, Frank."

"Huh?"

"He's got enough on his plate right now and there's nothing else to do about it anyway. Let it go. Like you said, heat of the moment. You don't need to remind him."

Harper's mystified expression took a second to clear. In its place came a look of relief punctuated by a single sharp nod. "Yeah, you know I think you're right."

Mark shrugged and smiled diffidently. "Once in a while."

Frank's own smile became a knowing grin. "Don't bother getting up. I'll head out of here and maybe give him a call later."

Mark nodded. "Keep him posted."

"Just the important stuff."

Frank saw himself out. Mark's expression slipped into something more pensive as he tried to picture the judge tackling Dex Falcon. It wasn't that he didn't know how hard a punch the guy could throw, it was the circumstances: Hardcastle pounding a witness—even a _perpetrator_—on account of Tonto being MIA. And Frank being not the slightest bit surprised. Annoyed, maybe, but not surprised.

Mark slowly got to his feet. He gathered up his cane and his astonishment and hobbled back into the hallway.

He must have still worn the look of perplexity when he reached the kitchen. Millie had a bowl couched in one arm and was spooning the dough out onto a cookie sheet. She glanced up from her work and paused in mid-dollop.

"Something wrong?"

He shook his head. The planets were out of alignment—or maybe the sun had gotten slightly closer—but it wouldn't have been something he could explain to her.

"You still look awfully pale," she observed with quiet concern.

"It's January, Millie."

"You didn't look that pale a few weeks ago," she pointed out firmly. "You've had a busy morning. I think you should lie down for a while."

Mark made a face. "I've been doing that for a week and a half already." He looked past her toward the window and the sun-glittered ocean. There'd been a few times—mostly back in that Godforsaken ravine, but even after that, in the hospital—that he thought he might never see it again.

"Maybe . . ." he said, leaning his weight onto his bad leg—testing it, "maybe I'll go down there." He gestured with his chin toward the window.

In response to Millie's quick, horrified glance at the ocean, he amended his resolution slightly. "Not the beach—just the pool. Get some sun," he added righteously. You said I looked pale. Anyway, it's pretty nice out today."

Millie still looked doubtful, but Mark was already headed for the door.

00000

Mark felt as pleasantly baked as the cookies. The first few had been munched warm from the oven, with one held in reserve to keep the milk company when it finally arrived.

It was too mild a day for even Hardcastle to protest when he returned from his errands and found him there by the pool. There was barely a grumble as the older man sank into the next deck chair over and unfolded his paper. A sideways feint for the remaining cookie was thwarted a short time later. It suddenly seemed natural, teasing the judge, and the resultant muttering seemed more natural, too.

Millie was there with milk in hand and a second batch of cookies already done, she reassured. Then she dropped a bombshell—that she was leaving, going to live with her sister. Mark discovered that, despite the progress he thought he'd made that day, there were still gaps to be filled.

He flustered for a moment but quickly found his bearings and mock-protested what he knew was inevitable. It was easy to understand how awkward it would be for Millie to stay. Awkward for her, and for Hardcastle as well.

He felt the banter kick in—a safe reflex. The judge seemed willing to cooperate, but then Millie stepped into the conversation again with a different air altogether.

It was a little embarrassing, what she said, that the judge had been there that whole first long night in the hospital—refusing to leave, though there was nothing more he could have done than he already had. Embarrassing, maybe, but given what he'd already heard—both from Millie and Frank—not surprising.

Then she leaned in toward him. Never would he have thought before that moment that he had a touch of the precognition himself, but as she dropped her voice and whispered those last three words regarding Hardcastle's feelings, he heard them almost as a echo of what he already knew was true.


End file.
